


How the Mighty Have Fallen

by Miah_Arthur



Series: Bad Things Happen [2]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Insect Torture, Psychological Torture, Public Humiliation, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:22:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24117202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miah_Arthur/pseuds/Miah_Arthur
Summary: Lucifer died at the end of St. Lucifer, but death was not the end for him. Blinded and put on display, he is at the mercy of creative demons.
Series: Bad Things Happen [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738765
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	How the Mighty Have Fallen

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beta: Azure_Iolite. She was a delight to work with and very helpful!

#  **How the Mighty Have Fallen**

Lucifer woke from his second 'death' to find his arms chained, stretched taut and wide over his head. Jeering from a horde of demons reached his ears from somewhere below him. The skin of his face, neck, and chest throbbed and pulsed with the beat of his heart and bright pain sparked with every fleck of ash that landed on the raw burns. His shoulders groaned from the strain, and he tried to get to his feet to relieve the pressure on them. His legs were locked down at ankle and calf. 

The skin of his forehead and cheeks burned, but his eyes were a blank in a sea of pain. The damaged nerves would heal over time. Damage done outside of the cells chipped away at the essence of the soul. It would regenerate, but it took time. 

"Amateurs!" he called. They were listening. They must be. He was the star of the show, after all. 

No answer came back. 

"Too afraid to let me know who dares to chain the Devil?"

Laughter rippled through the crowd below, cutting off Lucifer's next retort. A sense of unease settled over him. What could he not see? He hung there, waiting as the demons fell silent. He wasn't alone. The occasional throat clearing or shuffling of the feet told him they were still present. What did they want?

“I know that voyeurism is a popular fetish, but really, shouldn’t something be happening for it to be fun?”

Nothing. Not even shuffling. His mind drifted to earth. The Detective had been waiting for him to come down for the gala. Would she be the one to find his body? If too many humans saw it, he'd be forced to hide in hell until living memory passed away. 

_Hurry up, Amenadiel. Let's keep this manageable, shall we?_

The first clod thrown at him had the masterful aim to hit him solidly in the bollocks. He jerked his hips backward to protect his soft bits despite the additional strain on his shoulders. His backside hit a wall of spikes, and he straightened to avoid _that._ A scratch only, but he understood the game now. Getting impaled on a wall of spikes wasn't high on his list of fun things to do, and he braced himself for the onslaught of projectiles sure to be on their way. 

"Stoning in front of spikes is the best you could come up with? I'm ashamed to think you call yourselves torturers."

Nothing impacted him. The silence of the waiting demons pressed in on him, dread growing within him. "If you're trying to give the illusion that you're not there, you forgot to bathe." He snorted theatrically. "I suppose the point of this exercise is to kill me with your stench? Are you hoping I'll get bored enough to impale m'self?"

The punctures had been mildly annoying. A far lesser sting than the acid burns, but now they began to itch. The surrounding skin crawled. The desire to scratch loomed. The itch spread, radiating out from the scratches. It burned. It crawled and bit into him. The spikes were laced with something. What?

 _Mites_. Mites infested his body, under his skin, eating into his flesh. 

Sweat broke out all over his body, trickling over the burns. The itching kept spreading, tracing up onto his back, creeping down his cheeks, driving him mad. The leading edge prickled, and the center burned. His body shook with the need for relief. Feet shuffled around him on the platform. They were so close, yet so silent. He didn't know where he was. Where were they, what were they planning. Unable to see, he had no way of knowing what else he was missing, and that was almost as maddening as the mites.

The itching crept between his cheeks, reaching ever more sensitive skin, and he couldn't stop himself from twitching and squirming. Only the intense clenching of his jaw saved him from screaming. A clod struck him in the forehead, snapping the back of his head into the spikes. 

The itching spread faster over his head. It stung. It burned. Unignorable. Neverending. The mites crawled into his ears, his nose, his mouth, and nothing could hold back his desperate cries for relief. Wave after wave of laughter passed through the crowd, and shame at losing control in front of so many washed over him. The chains holding him loosened fractionally, and finally, the expected rain of rocks, mud, and excrement bombarded him, forcing him into a never ending dance of flailing as he was jostled and impaled on and off the spikes

He jerked and danced and died choking on microscopic insects to the tune of demon laughter.


End file.
